Jarkyn

“I rooted your Mum last night,” Jarkyn Lockheed said to his opponent as they watched the boundary throw in take place in the pocket at the other end of the ground.

It was the semi finals of the under 18’s championship, and Lockheed, the highly regarded forward from Bulleen was being stood by a defender from one of those towns out in the Australian bush that sound like the kind of fart you do after eight pints and a kebab.

“While I was rooting her, I taped it my phone and made your sister watch it the next night when I done up her up the shitbox,” Lockheed continued.

His opponent merely stared ahead. Not only had he heard it all before, but Lockheed was quick of the mark and could turn on a sixpence. The city boys had won the tap and were working the ball up towards where the defender and his foul mouthed opponent stood just on the parabolic curve of the 50 metre line.

“Then the next day, I got your two little brothers and dressed them as Caro and Rebecca and made them act that video out and I taped it and made your Dad watch it while I rooted him.”

Lockheed’s opponent turned involuntarily, took his eyes of the ball, felt his right hand rise. But then the target of his fist was suddenly gone. Too late the big bloke realised a kick had been punched forward and seized upon by Lockheed, who used the burst of pace and unerring finish that had the recruiters slapping the salami when they watched his performances.

His fourth goal of the first quarter registered, Lockheed returned to his position with a taunting grin on his pockmarked face.

“Ha ha, sucked in dipshit,” he said.

“See when I get drafted number one this year, I’m gunna go up to whatever shithole you come from and root your Mum again to celebrate. Might even let my mates have a shot too. I’ve got this one mate called Donkeycock. Do you know why we call him that …”

The defender sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.